Dick Bullet – Private Dick

I got a call from this broad come August. Can’t complain because I can’t choose my clients. Said she got a case of the usual, good for nuthin’ hubby making excuses on where he kept going at night.

I’m Dick Bullet, private eye, got a cheating wife/husband and/or business partner then I’m the sap who sits outside of their house for days, hoping to snap up the incriminating evidence.

This Mrs Mallory may have been a goddess of the silver screen forty years ago, but Old Father Time is a mean old man and chips away at anybody’s good looks. Where she was once stunning with eyes sharp enough to pierce diamonds and legs slender than a snake, practically death and sex wrapped in one tight glove, now she was like a dried raisin, those dark eyes had gone greyer than a rain cloud, her hair was whiter than the north pole and her skin sagged worse than a mattress left out in a forest.

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Knit One, Purl One

She lays out the wool in evenly spaced bundles and polishes each button until it reflects her asphalt-grey iris. It’s a careful equation. Knit one, purl one. Soft wool yielding to hard needles. One tiny cardigan for the baby unit, one good deed to balance a bad one.

A wholesome baking smell fills the room as she clicks the needles in a steady rhythm. This is Margaret’s favourite time of day, the sun just beginning to filter through the curtains. This is when hope shines brightest, when the rest of the world is still asleep and her to-do list is already half-done. Reverend James will collect the cakes later, his soothing voice an antidote to the harsh one in her head. ‘Saint’ will drown out ‘Sinner’ for a few hours. ‘Thank you’ will banish ‘How could you?’ at least until darkness falls.

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Prompt for October 2025 – The Good Life

HOMEWORK for deadline Thursday 10pm, 23.10.25.

TASK: ‘The Good Life’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘The Good Life’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.

Homework to be in by 10 pm at the latest, Thursday 23rd October 2025. (This time deadline will be helpful to both Martyn and Pat).

Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 26.10.25, Waterstones Bookshop, top floor [via stairs or lift], Oxford Street. Finish about 3.00pm.

Portrait of a Man on Fire

On the 29th of May, I was sent off to Joseph Dahl’s townhouse. He was often seen strolling around Caden Street or by the lake in Muriel Park, wishing everyone a good hullo, usually while dressed in a grey suit tailored from JR Parking’s and wearing a straw hat. A habit which made him the menace of a few penny counters and good Samaritans, but the local policemen regarded him as more an itch than any serious threat.

“Some people,” he said as he gripped my hand in his leathery paw, “can’t understand the spiritual life, they’ll chant their vows come Sunday but rarely put those promises into practice.”

“How about it?” asked his not wife, not girlfriend, Susannah, who at that moment lazed upon the sofa. “Do you swear by Christ or by Odin?”

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An event they’re not likely to forget

Everyone said Christopher was in a good mood in the week leading up to the presentation. This sullen, moody boy, often muttering to himself now walked with a spring in his step, wore a smile on his lips and went so far as to ask people about their day.

Odd because, rarely in the three years working for the company did he speak in full sentences, usually making do with nasally monosyllabic grunts and somehow, he now spoke in full paragraphs with a happy tone.

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Perfect Day

Alfie disappears into the classroom without looking back. It swallows him whole. That’s good, I tell myself. He’s happy and I’m free to be ‘me’ again. It’s terrifying.

Turning towards the gate, I focus on the shiny new stilettoes that I hoped would bring me confidence. But I feel ridiculous. A pool of sweat is collecting beneath the too-tight waistband of my trousers, the material straining to contain my bulging flesh. Why did I let Ben convince me to pursue a career again, at my age? Asking his university colleagues to consider me for a job? They’ll see right through me. Inadequate. Embarrassing. Fat.

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